I thought it was just a job.
At sixteen, a paycheck felt like freedom, and my little Saturn coupe was proof I was growing up. When my new neighbor asked if I’d drive his seventh-grade daughter to and from school, I didn’t pray about it. I didn’t sense a calling. I saw gas money, independence, and a reason to drive as often as possible.
But while I was thinking about dollars, God was thinking about destiny.
I didn’t know those short drives would become sacred ground. I didn’t know casual conversations would carry eternal weight. And I certainly didn’t know the Lord would be planting something in both of us—seeds that would lie hidden for years before I ever saw a single sprout.
In Matthew 13:18–23, Jesus explains the parable of the sower. A farmer scatters seeds, and they fall on different kinds of soil. Some are snatched away. Some spring up quickly but wither. Some are choked by thorns. And some, planted in the good soil, take root, grow deeply, and multiply beyond expectation.
The same type of seed. The same sower. But different soil. Different timing. Different outcomes.
At sixteen, I didn’t think of myself as a sower. I was just a girl who loved Jesus, showed up to youth group, and said yes to driving a neighbor to school.
But Jesus was already teaching me that evangelism doesn’t often look like a stage or a microphone. Sometimes it looks like a steering wheel, a fast-food bag in the passenger seat, and a heart willing to talk about Him in everyday life.
She and I became fast friends. We bonded over our dogs, music, and the shared ache of growing up in homes where love sometimes felt uncertain. We both believed in God, but our faiths stood on different foundations. Hers felt more inherited and occasional, shaped by church visits with grandparents, while mine was becoming deeper and more grounded.
By then, Jesus had become real to me. Personal. Close. I was learning what it meant to be loved by a Father who didn’t leave, didn’t shift with moods, and didn’t measure me by performance. That kind of love was changing me from the inside out, and I couldn’t keep quiet about it.
So between school drop-offs and Taco Bell runs, I started sharing pieces of my story. Not sermons—just honesty. How Jesus met me. How He was healing my heart. How I was discovering that I didn’t have to earn His love because I already had it.
I watched as she listened. Really listened. Something in her softened.
Before long, I felt the gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit: Invite her to youth group.
I was nervous, but I asked. And to my surprise, she didn’t hesitate. She was excited. Even more surprising were the friends she wanted to bring. Suddenly, my little Saturn carried more than passengers; it carried possibility.
I became their small group leader at church, and those nights were holy. Sitting in circles of middle school girls with open Bibles and open hearts, we talked about the fruit of the Spirit, prayer, identity in Christ, and how to hear God’s voice. They asked brave questions. Tender questions. The kind that reveal deep hunger.
I thought I was teaching them, but the Holy Spirit was growing me right alongside them. Every seed I planted in their lives, He was planting deeper in mine.
For a season, it felt like a beautiful garden in bloom.
But as the years passed, life scattered us.
High school brought new influences for them. College brought distance first for me and then for them. Social media showed parties, relationships, and choices that seemed far from the faith we once talked about so freely. I watched from a distance with a sinking heart. I began to wonder which soil their hearts had been.
Jesus said, “As for what was sown on rocky ground, this is the one who hears the word and immediately receives it with joy, yet he has no root in himself, but endures for a while” (Matt. 13:20–21). I worried that was their story. I replayed conversations in my mind, wondering what I could have done differently.
Maybe I hadn’t discipled them well enough. Maybe I should have called more. Tried harder. As I stepped into marriage and motherhood, my days became full, and my connection with them grew thin. I carried a quiet ache that maybe I had failed them. That I had failed God.
But the parable never said the sower controls the harvest.
Only God gives growth.
Years passed. I spent more time changing diapers than reading devotionals in my daily routine. My world became smaller and holier in different ways. I still thought about and prayed for those girls often as I began raising my own daughters.
Then, about fifteen years later, I received an unexpected message on my phone.
It was from her, the girl who once climbed into my Saturn in the early mornings before school started. Only now she wasn’t a girl. She was a woman, a wife, a mother.
She told me she was back in church and that her faith was alive again. She was raising her children to know Jesus. She thanked me for loving her, for bringing her to youth group, for showing her what a relationship with God could look like. She said I probably had no idea the deep impact that I had made in her life. Until she spoke those words, I wasn’t sure.
I guess those planted seeds really did go deep … and now they were not only sprouting but producing fruit.
She sent me photos of her recent baptism.
I sat there and wept the kind of tears that come when you realize God was working in places you thought were barren. All those years I assumed the seed had died, the Holy Spirit had been tending roots underground. Quietly. Patiently. Faithfully.
Jesus said, “As for what was sown on good soil, this is the one who hears the word and understands it. He indeed bears fruit and yields, in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty” (Matt. 13:23).
I got to witness fruit—not just in her, but in her children. Little ones who now watch their mom love Jesus. Little ones singing worship music and growing up hearing about God’s faithfulness because, years ago, God prompted a teenage girl to talk to their mom about Jesus while driving her to school.
That is the miracle of evangelism. We offer loaves and fish; He feeds multitudes. We plant seeds in ordinary moments; He grows forests over generations.
Maybe you’ve shared your faith with someone who now seems far from God. Maybe you poured into a child, a friend, a sibling, or a coworker, and today all you see is distance. Silence. Choices that break your heart.
Buried does not mean dead.
God does some of His deepest work underground. Roots grow in hidden places. Faith can lie dormant through seasons of rebellion, distraction, or pain. And then, at just the right time, the Holy Spirit breathes on those long-buried truths and brings them back to life.
Your role is not to force fruit. Your calling is to be faithful with the seed.
Keep talking about Jesus in natural, loving ways. Keep inviting. Keep praying names you haven’t spoken out loud in years. Keep trusting that no conversation about Christ is wasted. His Word is alive and active, even when the evidence is invisible.
To me, it was an opportunity to earn gas money and fill time. To God, it was an opportunity to cultivate hearts and shape eternity.
And He is still doing that through ordinary believers who are willing to say, “Here I am, Lord. Use me.”
In carpools.
Kitchens
Text threads.
Coffee shops.
So plant the seed. Scatter generously and trust the Lord of the harvest with what happens next.
Because one day, maybe years from now, you might receive a message, see a baptism photo, or watch a once-wandering heart lead their own children to church. You’ll realize heaven grew a harvest from a seed that God placed in your hands. He trusted you to not only plant that seed but to nourish it with your hope, your faith, your prayers, and your time. Even if it takes years.
Prayer: Jesus, thank You for letting me partner with You in planting seeds. Help me be faithful to share Your love, even when I don’t see results. Grow deep roots in hearts I’ve prayed for, and teach me to trust Your timing. Use my ordinary life to point others to You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
